


How many tides (must a man weigh)

by ElisAttack



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Magic, Arranged Marriage, Celtic Mythology & Folklore, Druid Stiles Stilinski, Fanart, Gay Derek, Homophobia, M/M, Magical Tattoos, Minor Kate Argent/Derek Hale, NSFW Art, Plague, Warrior Derek
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-08
Updated: 2015-08-08
Packaged: 2018-04-13 13:36:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,646
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4524027
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ElisAttack/pseuds/ElisAttack
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Love, we drink fresh water to survive, magic drinks salt water to live.</p><p>Or the one where Derek is a Pictish Chief’s son in a forbidden relationship with his tribe’s Druid.</p>
            </blockquote>





	How many tides (must a man weigh)

**Author's Note:**

> This whole thing started out months ago when I saw the press release photos of the new Macbeth film, starring Marion Cotillard, and Michael Fassbender, but it veered totally off in terms of plot, and now has absolutely nothing to do with Macbeth.
> 
> Title from the song _How Many Tides_ by Moriarty

 [Tumblr link to art](http://iamonlydancing.tumblr.com/post/126140164732/how-many-tides-must-a-man-weigh-35k-words)

***

Across the endless moonlit moors he wanders, fingers caressing the flowing heather, as grass moves like ghosts in the wind. 

A young stag startles as he pushes through the high brushwood and Derek readies his spear.  The wild animal locks eyes with him for one long moment, deciding if he is a threat or not.  That is its mistake.

Derek lets the spear fly.  It enters into the bone of the lower leg, crumpling the hapless animal into the underbrush.  Derek puts it out of its misery with knife drawn quickly across its throat.

He drags the carcass back to the tribe, leaving a bloody trail in his wake.  Wolves howl in the distance, but they know not to interfere with the humans, lest they end up with a spear in the belly.

He carefully removes the majestic bone antlers from the animal with a sharpened blade, before dropping the massive beast in the village center where the others can partake of its flesh.  He has what he wants.

With bloodied hands and a crown of bone, he walks to the edge of the settlement.  People stare as he goes, but a glare sent in their direction quickly has them minding their own business.

Derek cracks open the door of the Druid's hut, and Stiles waits for him on their furs, a smile stretching his beautiful mouth wide.

You brought it for me, he says, rising to his feet.

Yes, Derek replies, placing the antlers in Stiles' hands.

Thank you, Stiles says, smiling softly.

My reward?  Derek questions as the Druid goes to put the antlers away.

Stiles sends him an amused grin, letting his loose shirt slip over his shoulder until pale spotted skin is revealed.

Come and take it.

***

The snow falls and the bogs freezes, but the heather never dies, it hibernates beneath the snow, providing sustenance for the animals still living. 

The wolves grow reckless as the shortage of game drives them desperate.  Strategically placed guards ward them away from the penned lifestock, but the tribe still loses one ewe in a fortnight.

They cannot afford to lose another one.  The animals provide the tribe with fibre to keep warm and milk to feeds babes.  Derek is tasked with asking the Druid for a solution. 

Stiles' cheeks are red as he inspects the pen and Derek wants to wrap his woollen cloak around his surprisingly broad shoulders, but Stiles' torso must remain uncovered.  A tattoo of the horned god rests between his pecs, focusing Stiles' magic.

Bring me salt,  Stiles orders.

Stiles walks around the pen, handfuls of precious salt drizzling in lines over the frozen ground, his head is thrust back into the clouded cornflower sky as he whispers his magics into the chill air, lips blue as warm breath releases in billows.  Each step weaves the spell and the tattoo glows vibrantly.

The moment the ritual is finished, Derek presses a kiss to Stiles' neck, drawing him close, nuzzling, beard tickling sensitive skin.  Stiles laughs and Derek nuzzles harder, chasing the gorgeous sound.

That night, Stiles presses Derek's face into their furs and opens him up with clever fingers and warm oil.  He fucks Derek deeply and slow. 

Gasping and biting into the pillows, he resists touching himself, wanting to come with just the feeling of Stiles' cock filling him so perfectly, so completely.

He's not disappointed.

In the afterglow, Stiles pulls a small piece of blackened antler tine from the fire.  It is still warm to the touch when he grinds it in a clay bowl with a smooth river stone.

What are you doing?  Derek questions, resting his head on his crossed forearms as he lies naked on his belly watching the Druid work.

Stiles looks at him, the weight of his gaze heavy.  Protection from what will come, he says simply.

Stiles pours warm animal glue and woad into the bowl, mixing the concoction with a thin finger until it is runny and dark like the indigo sky.

Stiles climbs onto Derek and sits on the small of his back, thighs massaging Derek's sides as nimble fingers prepare the needles.  Tying them tightly together with sinew, he dips them in the mixture before pressing it into Derek's skin.  The puncture stings, but Stiles sooths the ache as he wipes the blood and excess ink away.

How long will this take?  You're riding me and it isn't even enjoyable.  Derek grumbles impatiently after the first hour passes and Stiles remains straddled on his back.

Stiles laughs so hard the needle jerks.  Sorry, he says sheepishly, pressing a kiss against the flesh he tore.

Just hurry it up, my ass is falling asleep.  Derek wiggles, sinking back into the warmth of the pillow.

Stiles swats his ass like he's a mule.  Magic rushes for no man, he says.

Five people die during the harsh winter, but the triskelion on his back keeps him warm, protects him. 

***

Spring comes, bringing with it so much rain the earth turns into a perpetual foot trap, roads muddy, and merchants bringing goods from the south are delayed.

The turn of the season also brings _the woman,_ the daughter of a neighbouring Chief.

She arrives in the village with a retinue, and Derek stares suspiciously at her back as she strides amongst the small huts, arrogance in the way she carries herself.  The woman walks into his parent's roundhouse like she is royalty, and Derek already knows he wants nothing to do with her.

She speaks in an unrecognizable tongue, her eyes hard and cold, hair limp and greasy.  But Derek does catch one word as she glances around at his people, Stiles' Druid marks painted blue on their faces, protective charms, fertility spells. 

Savages, she says, gripping tight the cross around her neck.  His blood boils.

He finds out her name the day Derek is arranged to tie himself to her in marriage. 

Kate, she whispers in his ear as she holds his hand, Stiles wrapping a strand of red thread around their wrists.

Derek tries to catch his eye, but Stiles evades him skilfully.

***

He cannot rise for Kate.

Her tits, are mounds, not level with her chest.  Her belly is soft, hipbones unapparent.  The patch of hair between her legs is flat, and a cock does not lie between.  She is all wrong, and he feels no lust, no desire, no love, nothing. 

Derek watches a man touching a woman that night during supper, cupping her breast with reverence as she giggles, another hand hidden between her legs.  Derek cannot not award the same veneration to Kate.

Derek longs for Stiles' cock.  To feel it enter him, ruin him, until he's nothing but a moaning, quivering mess. 

He closes his eyes, thinking of Stiles as Kate strokes him, but the scent of her cloying foreign perfume is so thick in the air he cannot even rise on beautiful fantasies alone.

She yells, she screams, she calls him revolting things, she questions his manhood as he cannot even consummate their unwanted marriage.  Stiles just stands to the side while Kate furies, begging the Druid for a way to remedy this with his _unholy_ magic.

Stiles meets Derek's eyes.  I will have to observe your coupling, he says.

Kate lies still on her front, holding herself open, waiting for Derek to stroke himself as he watches Stiles without her knowledge.  He stares into Stiles' honey eyes as he sinks into her.  Watches Stiles whisper words, magic making Kate's cunt contract, and Derek thankfully comes in only a few thrusts.  After, Stiles rubs red clover into the skin of Kate's belly so his seed will take and bear fruit.

Derek watches Stiles leave the hut to return to _their_ furs, as Kate speaks of Derek's pathetic stamina, his lack of vigour.  Derek aches to tell her of the time he once helped Stiles find release five times in one night using only his mouth and tongue.  But he resists, Stiles would be the one to suffer for his brash words.

***

Months pass until spring turns into the short moor summer.  Crops grow tall, and the villagers rejoice, knowing the harvest will be bountiful this year.

Kate's womb has yet to quicken, unfertile, unlike the soil all around them, and Derek cannot help but feel some relief.  He doesn't know if he would be capable of feeling love towards a child born of this woman, one who will possess her cruelty, her capriciousness. 

Kate grows even more bitter as the season goes on, and the temptation to stray from her cold arms grows too strong, until one night, Derek cannot resist.

There's a woman sitting beside Stiles at dinner.  The tops of her healthy breasts spill from her dress, and Derek cannot help but notice the way Stiles' eyes are drawn to them, the way they lean close to each other, laughing, as Stiles tells her stories of his travels on the vast moors.

Derek throws his half eaten dinner into the dirt and rises to his feet, pushing away Kate's questioning arm as he advances towards Stiles' hut.  Towards _their_ furs.

He doesn't know what he's looking for as he searches amongst the chest holding Stiles' possessions.  Maybe a woman's dress or undergarments, even tansy tea.  Derek finds nothing.  Slamming the chest shut, he turns around and freezes, seeing Stiles leaning against the closed door.

Are you satisfied?  Stiles asks.

Never, Derek replies.  He marches forward and grabs Stiles by the front of his tunic, pulling him in until their mouths clash in a flurry of biting teeth and impatient tongues.

Fuck me, Stiles whispers as he pulls away, mouth swollen and wet.

Derek gives him what he wants.

He doesn't hear the door as it creaks slightly open, a grey eye peering through the crack, a woman's hand in her small clothes, touching herself as she watches her husband make love to a man the way he should be making love to her.

***

The tribe gathers outside the Chief's roundhouse, Stiles calling them together, whispers of a prophetic dream high in the air.

Rats, Stiles begins.  I dreamt a colossal rat swallowed the tribe whole.

Kate is the only one who laughs.  Rats!  She exclaims.  What's could possibly be next?  Giant fleas?

Stiles levels a heavy gaze at her, before turning and addressing the rest of the tribe.  You must kill them on site and burn their bodies, do not let them live beside you.  All imports must be inspected thoroughly for the creatures.

Kate rises to her feet, and points a finger at Stiles.  This is a waste of resources, she accuses.  You'll have our good men running around with clubs killing rats, when they should be preparing for the harvest?

The druid has never been wrong!  A man shouts.

He has protected us for years!  A woman calls.

We trust his judgement, the Chief states.

Kate scoffs and marches to the front of the crowd while Derek runs after her, but she slyly evades him striding right up to Stiles.  You would trust the words of a _man fucker_?  She spits at Stiles' feet.

The crowd is silent, until Derek's father speaks.  Proof?  He asks simply.

My eyes have witnessed the act, I lieth not,  she says and Derek bodily grabs her, pulling her to the side and presses a hand across her mouth.

Let her go, my son.  the Chief demands.  Who was the other?

Kate bites his hand, drawing blood and Derek removes it in pain.  I had not seen their face, she lies as she sneers at Derek.

Derek wipes the blood from his hand on his trousers, and turns frightened eyes to Stiles.

Stiles stares calmly back.

He holds Derek's gaze as men grab him by the arms and drag him from the gathering.  He holds Derek's gaze as he falls into the dust, and they do not bother helping him up again.  He holds Derek's gaze as they grab him by the legs and pull him until stinging nettles and jagged stones cut into his flesh.  He only breaks the gaze when they toss him from the village limits.

Make your own way, the Chief says.

Derek is too frozen to speak.

In truth, he is too afraid.

***

Winter arrives again and Kate is bedridden with a deadly sickness a week after the arrival of the last shipment of grain from the south.  In her feverish delirium she mutters and moans, grasping at the symbol of her one god, claiming Stiles is the one disrupting her humours, rendering her ill.  Even if it is the truth, Derek could care less.  He thinks she deserves no less.

Derek has other problems.  The sickness rendering Kate ill has spread all across the moors.  Neighbouring tribes are disappearing, and food is growing scarce as shipments are stolen by stragglers.

When their herd of sheep in stolen in the dead of night, the watch guard's throat slit, war is declared on Kate's old tribe.

This time, there is no Druid to bless the warriors as they prepare, but Derek feels the triskelion burn bright on his back, proof Stiles still lives, still loves him enough to protect him, even through his weakness and betrayal.

The men run into battle, clashing swords and burning fires, pitch shot from arrows razing the raiding village to ashes.  He loses good men under his command, and he can't help but feel bitter, wondering what it would've been like if Stiles wasn't banished, if they would've lost not one soul.

Derek returns home, half of his men dead and buried where they fell.  Derek cannot afford to bring the corpses home.  He fears the rats, remembering what Stiles said seasons ago, that they would bring calamity and strife.  He kills every rat he sees, but the men do not bother with this endeavour.

Derek returns home to a village in flames. 

Kate stands in the village center, a ring of fire and smoke around her, head thrown to the sky, torches in each hand.  Derek stares numbly at the buboes covering the neck and groin of her bloodstained body.  The only thing on her naked body, the golden cross around her neck.

Her mind is lost to the sickness!  His advisor cries as the others attempt to extinguish the flames, trying to save who they can. 

She was never sane to begin with, Derek says.

The fires consume her, and she dies screaming.

They are unable to save anyone, and five good men fall on their blades as the sight of their kin's charred corpses.

A rat runs past his feet, and Derek steps on its tiny head, crushing it into the dust, kicking the small corpse into the still smouldering rubble.

The remaining men huddle in a tent on the outskirts, surviving on the meagre food they scavenge, and the birds shot from the sky.  They don't want to leave and find new pastures, becoming nomads traveling from area to area.  The men want to remain, living and dying on their ancestral lands, however long it takes.  Derek concedes, even though his heart lies elsewhere.

That night, the first man coughs, and Derek closes his eyes, knowing the end is near.

***

He holds a spear in hand, walking amongst the heather like he did so many moons ago, when he hunted a stag for its antlers. 

This time he desires the meat for sustenance.

He spots a graceful, beautiful animal, and readies his throwing arm, but a sudden coughing fit overtakes him, and he falls to his knees, wheezing.  He stares down at his hand, blood and phlegm coating it.  Derek wipes the evidence on the heather.

He looks up, and the stag is already a speck in the distance.  Rising to his feet, he heads back to camp.

Halfway there, a wolf howls, and Derek grips his spear tighter.  Last night they lost a healthy man out on the moors, ripped to shreds by a wolf.  The beasts are no longer afraid of humans, and Derek cannot blame them, for humans are weak and spineless creatures.

He nearly trips over the carcass outside of camp. 

It is a fresh kill, as the deer seems to have breathed its last the moment he came near, and blood still pumps sluggishly from its throat where it was torn out.

An offering, he remarks, staring off into the distance.  He thinks he sees glowing red eyes, but when he blinks they disappear.

The men eat well that night, but food is not the only issue.  The morning brings the death of a man with buboes covering his body.  They toss his body on the moor far away from camp, not wanting to attract any attention from predators.

A few days later and Derek checks up on the man's body, finding it untouched by everything but maggots.  The flesh is much too sickly for even scavengers to feast upon.

***

Derek's dreams grow feverish.

He walks through the fog, unable to see anything but grass and mud when suddenly a heavy weight hits into him from the side and he falls to the earth.  Derek stares up into the eyes of his assaulter, finding a dark, red eyed wolf staring back at him, teeth bared, saliva dripping from sharp incisors onto his face. 

The wolf snuffles at his throat, and Derek lies still hoping his death will be painless.  He has no energy left to struggle.  The buboes are forming on his skin, and the men stare at him in fear, knowing in only a few short days, he too will die.

The wolf moves down his body, sniffing, stopping at his hip.  Meeting his eyes, Derek thinks they glow red for one long second. 

The wolf bites down hard, and Derek screams.

He wakes from the nightmare, shooting up from his bedroll with a loud bellow and flailing arms, he feels the pain in his side like it is real.  Lifting up his shirt, he touches his skin with a shaking hand, feeling hot, unmarred flesh.

The men comfort him, whispering soothing words, but Derek can see how empty they are.  They are dead men walking and know it.

***

Derek starts feeling better, even as the men grow worse. 

His advisor is the next to die, and Derek hauls the body himself far onto the moor, the others are much too sick to help.  Derek folds his advisor's arms over his chest, placing a sprig of purple heather between cold, folded hands. 

He doesn't bother burying the man who cared for him as he grew up, taught him strategy, prepared him to take over as village Chief.  The wolves will not touch the body anyway.

***

Derek wakes to five cold, dead bodies in the tent, and he sighs.

Rising, he opens the flap and stares out into the moors, it's a foggy morning, and his breath releases in huffs.  He pulls on his woollen coat, and gathers whatever food and weapons he can muster, and leaves the tent be.  Allowing his soldiers to rest on into eternity.

The blowing grasses whisper in the wind as the morning fog dissipates to reveal the sun.  He blinks up into the sky as it glows gold. 

By afternoon the sun has melted the soft coating of frost, and Derek stops by a pool of water he recognizes as the place Stiles first drew a protective ceremonial triskelion on his back with blue woad.  He breaks the thin coating of ice covering the surface, and splashes water on his face.

Hearing the sound of sharp claws against stone, he glances up.

A wolf drinks from the pond on the opposite side and Derek stares in wonder as its long tongue dips out splashing water back into its mouth.  The wolf looks exactly like the one in his dream.

Derek sits back on his haunches and watches.

The wolf finishes drinking and meets his eyes, but instead of attacking or running away, it seems to raise its brow before turning around so its back is to Derek.  It glances behind itself once and jerks its head, like it's asking Derek if he's coming or not.

Derek follows.

It leads him east, always staying a sizable distance in front as it takes him further than he's even gone before in his life. 

The wolf hunts with him, chasing sizable prey right into Derek's line of sight where he can release the spear into flesh, killing the animal.  They feast together and Derek builds a small fire, smoking the deer with sage and grass until it's sweet smelling and preserved. 

Eventually the trees grow taller and taller, until they begin collecting into large groups.  The wolf leads him through these collectives.  It's deep, dark and endless inside, the canopy blocking out any light.  Derek walks fast.  He doesn't like sounds coming from the dark, the whispering of the woods, the rustling of the undergrowth.  It's unnerving.

Eventually the trees thin out, and the smell of salt is high on the air.

They break through the treeline and Derek gasps at the massive body of water in front of him, stretching out as far as the eye can see, long past the horizon.

A hut sits halfway between the treeline and shore, nestled in an alcove.  It's a simple roundhouse with thatched roof, built in the style of his village.  Derek holds his breath.

The wolf bounds up to the hut, wagging its tail, thumping on the door of the hut, paws scratching to be let in.  The door creaks open and a beautiful man snaps his fingers.  Immediately the wolf settles, lying at his feet and begins licking its paws.

Derek gasps in shock and stumbles forwards, taking off into a run towards the roundhouse.

Stiles opens his arms wide.

 

**Author's Note:**

> This has been a formatting experiment, the lack of quotation marks were completely intentional. There are lots of plot holes, I know, but I wrote this mostly for an aesthetic, not really for a plot, so I hope I was successful in conveying the beauty and abject loneliness of the Scottish heather moors. 
> 
> It is also incredibly historically inaccurate, the Black Plague occurred in the 1300s, and by then the Picts had already merged with other peoples to become the Scots.


End file.
